


It becomes

by boopboop



Series: Snake Eyes [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 18:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13129806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones.It's a time when their absence often hurts the most.Pre-Snake Eyes Bucky, Sam and Clint.





	It becomes

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a prequel for Snake Eyes, all the prior warnings apply in blanket form!
> 
> I know, I know, festive fluff time is supposed to mean just that! I'm sorry. The holidays make me terribly morose, so I figured I'd save the misery!
> 
> I would very much recommend having read Snake Eyes before reading this. It is a story purely about grief - the forms it takes and the effects it can have both on our own lives and the lives of those around us. 
> 
> Extra warnings for Clint and Sam's special brand of dealing with their shit.
> 
> Extra, extra warnings for insane creepiness and manipulation on Alexander Pierce's part :(
> 
> You can thank Steph for making my rambling coherent. This was a mess when I sent it to her and she worked a very speedy miracle so I could post in time for the holidays. Thank you! <3

 

_I even hear the mountains_

_the way they laugh_

_up and down their blue sides_

_and down in the water_

_the fish cry_

_and the water_

_is their tears._

_I listen to the water_

_on nights I drink away_

_and the sadness becomes so great_

_I hear it in my clock_

_it becomes knobs upon my dresser_

_it becomes paper on the floor_

_it becomes a shoehorn_

_a laundry ticket_

_it becomes_

_cigarette smoke_

_climbing a chapel of dark vines. . ._

_it matters little_

_very little love is not so bad_

_or very little life_

_what counts_

_is waiting on walls_

_I was born for this_

_I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead._

**Consummation Of Grief - Charles Bukowski**

* * *

  
The stars are missing. Washington D.C is no different than any other city in that regard. Too bright, too busy, too focused on the immediate to spare a thought for the skies above. Clint remembers open fields in the middle of nowhere, and foxholes halfway around the world. Dark skies a backdrop to hundreds of stars, some familiar, some strange, but welcome. Comforting. He could use that comfort now. In their absence, he’ll take a shot of JD and mutter a prayer to any higher power or deity who might care to lend an ear. He wants to drink more, but doesn’t dare.

Sam is out on the far side of the roof, his long legs thrown over the edge. His shoulders, hunched against more than just the December chill, sway unsteadily. There’s a fire escape below him. Clint knows, because Clint found him sitting on a rooftop and nearly had a fucking heart attack.

He’s not the right person for this. Not for Sam, who deserves so much more than what he’s been left with. Fuck, not for anyone. Clint is not the person you send in to deal with anyone’s broken heart. He can’t soothe the jagged edges of anyone’s pain, not when his own is still trying to claw its way out of his skin.

“Your mom called me, said you skipped out on food. Figured I‘d find you here,” he calls, nonchalant. Better this way that spooking Sam off the side of a building.

“Fuck off, Barton.” It’s not the welcome he might like, but it’s an acknowledgement at least.

“That’s nice. I drive all the way over here and that’s how you greet me. Traffic was fucked, man.”

“You live three blocks away. You should’ve walked. Or stayed the fuck home.” 

“And miss the chance to pick up some leftovers from your mom on the way out? Nah.”

He reaches the edge of the roof and swings his legs over so he can take a seat next to Sam. There’s a foot between them. Clint would close it if he had a fucking clue what he was doing. Sam’s talking to him, acknowledging him, so that puts the time-old hugs – or basically any physical contact – out the window. They aren’t physically affectionate, not really. And Clint isn’t a hugger. Dear god, he is not a hugger. 

Clint’s not dumb: he can see Sam’s falling apart. But it’s so much quieter, so much calmer than those first few days after losing Riley, that he doesn’t know if the contact would be welcome. Someone needs to write him a fucking guidebook. One that does a better job of laying this shit out than the formal-covered paperbacks he’s trawled through in Barnes and Noble.

“You gonna tell me why you skipped out on your mom?” Easier to start there than to dive head first into the dark.

Sam snorts bitterly. “It’s Christmas. And everyone is fucking happy and excited and I can’t fake it, not even for her.” 

“She’s trying to take your mind off...things,” Clint guesses. “I don’t think she wants you to fake anything.”

“Then that’s worse.”

Clint sighs. He has no fucking clue what he’s doing. “Come on, man. She’s your mom. Give her a break.”

“And what? Pretend I’m okay? I’m not fucking okay. I’m not even close to okay.” 

“You’re the only person expecting you to be!” Clint exclaims. “Jesus, Sam. No one blames you for not wanting to deck the fucking halls!”

Sam’s shoulders slump. “He’d be okay. If it were the other way around.”

Clint stares at him, his jaw on the street several floors below. “You can’t actually think that. Fuck you, man. You think he loved you any less than you loved him?”

His words are sharp, but he can’t bring himself to be angry with Sam, not when faced with the waves of hurt grief pouring off him.

It ‘d be a lot fucking easier on the both of them if he could.

 

* * *

 

Christmas, Bucky decides, is a whole lot fucking easier when tackled after a few lines of coke. If he’d known then what he knows now, he’d have tried this shit fucking years ago. Maybe he'd've been able to handle the thought of the holidays without wanting to throw himself out the window. Dugan wouldn’t have approved, but his mom would’ve been over the moon. She is now, and she even smiles at him from across the room.

Bucky’s the life and soul of the party; everyone wants to talk to him. Everyone wants to touch him. They’re so glad to see him looking so well. So happy he’s recovered after….

 No one wants to say the words ‘you got shot in the neck’ to him, but it’s all there, written in the sympathetic slant of their mouths.

 Bucky smiles at them all, beams at the cameras shoved in his face and lets himself be shuffled from pillar to post as he counts down the hours until he can blow Vasily for another line of coke. Three, he thinks, catching a glimpse of the clock on the wall as he’s led towards Howard Stark and his wife.

 Tony’s not here. That’s a good thing. Bucky doesn’t want to deal with people who might genuinely care about his well being. It’s much easier to lie to the ones who don’t actually give a fuck.

 “Hello, James,” Maria says, taking his hand in her own and squeezing gently. “It’s so good to see you.

 Bucky gives her his best smile and leans in to kiss her cheek. “Are you having a good night, Mrs Stark?”

 She rolls her eyes fondly at the formality. “Delightful. Pay no attention to the scowl on Howard’s face.” She glances over at Howard, only to find herself staring at his back as he makes his way across the room.

 “Maybe he’s thirsty?” Bucky offers, not liking the frown on her face. Maria Stark is one of those people who wasn’t made to be unhappy. She’s usually warm and glowing, and while Bucky has no idea what she sees in Howard, he does think they are a happy couple. They’re only a few rungs down the ladder of relationship goals than Steve’s mom and dad.

 “Of course he is.” Maria squeezes his hand again. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart, you go enjoy your evening. I’m so glad I got to see you. You’ve had us all worried.”

 “I didn’t mean to,” Bucky says.

 “Of course not! I’m just glad to see you looking so happy.”

 The genuine smile on his face freezes.

 Of course, he wants to _look_ happy. He’s supposed to. New lease on life, new beginnings. Grateful for narrow escapes. He’s young and the world is laid out at his feet. Why wouldn’t he be happy?

He spots his father on the far side of the room and starts to weave his way towards him. It takes almost half an hour as he’s stopped by nearly everyone he passes. His cheeks are starting to hurt from all the smiling and beneath his dress shirt, his skin itches and burns.

 He wants out. He wants quiet.

 He wants Dugan’s hand on his shoulder, drawing him away from the overwhelming crush of bodies.

 By the time he reaches his father’s side, he’s clammy and shaking.

 The President has a flared glass of brandy in hand and his cheeks are a warm, rosy red that suggests it’s not the first or the second. Still, his gaze is sharp when it lands on Bucky. It’s a shrewdness that makes him so formidable in politics, and it always makes Bucky feel two inches tall.

 “You don’t look well,” his father says, dismissing Secretary Shaw and General Ross with a pointed glance back in their direction. Shaw squeezes Bucky’s shoulder as he passes.

 “I… I don’t. Can I. Can I please be excused?”

 His father nods before answering: “Do I need to send Lukin up to see you?” Unlike his mother, his father views the sedatives Bucky has been prescribed with as an undesirable weakness on his son’s part. He acknowledges that Bucky needs some kind of help with things, especially after this last year, but Bucky knows his father would rather the drugs not be necessary. He also knows it’s a fight his father will never win, not when his mother is so firmly in favor of them. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No, I’m okay. I just–”

 Someone bumps into him and he steps closer towards his father on instinct. He’s not Dugan, but there’s no one he feels safe with now. His father loves him in a reserved, cold sort of way. Bucky will take all he can get.

 For a second his father raises his arm, almost as if he wants to give Bucky a hug, then clearly thinks better of it. “Go,” he says. “I expect to see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

 “Yes, father, thank you.” Bucky doesn’t wait to see if his father changes his mind. He worms his way back out of the ballroom, forcing an apologetic smile when anyone tries to stop him.

 The corridor is quiet in comparison to the buzz just beyond closed doors. Several waiters hurry past him with carefully balanced trays of drinks. Now that he’s away from the gathering, he’ss able to take a minute to catch his breath without being questioned.

 Vasily probably won’t be in Bucky’s room yet, but there’s a bottle of vodka with his name on it, and that will help calm him down until he can get his hands on something stronger.

 

* * *

 

Sam sets the little box on the edge of the rooftop. It sits there, innocuous as it is mundane; as dangerous as an IED.

“Shit,” Clint breathes. That’s… shit doesn’t really cover it. He knew they were serious. One hundred percent in love and all that jazz, but this…. Shit really, really doesn’t cover it.

Sam’s answering laugh is empty and echoing. “You think he’d’ve said yes?”

“Course he would’ve,” Clint says, not a second’s hesitation. They’d have argued over who got Clint as their best man. Riley would’ve won. Clint was always closer to him than to Sam. “He fucking loved you, man.”

“I thought it’d get easier. ‘Time heals all things’, that’s what they say, don’t they?” Underneath the anger and the grief, something very young and fractured looks out of Sam’s eyes, begging Clint to say or do something, and bring sense into this void of confusion and misery.

Clint snorts. “Well that’s bullshit.” Nothing is getting easier. It’s all getting harder. Every day he wakes up feeling heavier. It’s harder to get up and just _be_ . And he hasn’t lost what Sam has. “Time also lets things fester. Time brews fucking _poison_.”

Sam finally looks at him. Even in the dark, Clint can see the hopelessness written into every line on his face. The last few months have aged him. Both of them, really. Clint has always felt a hundred years older than his body actually is. He’d give anything to spare Sam that feeling. “So what do I do?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Not like I can have the suicide talk with my mom,” Sam says. The joke falls flat, but it brings a dawn of light to the situation that Clint can’t even begin to comprehend. He’s always been practical. Always been better at keeping his own terror in check when the stakes are at their highest.

“That where this is at?” He’s not surprised, not entirely. Sam’s whole world is upside down, and that’s before you factor all the other shit in. Statistically, he’s high risk. They both know guys who put a gun in their mouths and pulled the trigger.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Glad I put on clean fucking underwear.” He reaches under his jacket and pulls out his service revolver. “You wanna go first, or should I?”

Sam stares at him. “The fuck, Barton.”

“I’m asking if you wanna go first. If you do, you gotta” – he makes an awkward twisting motion with his hand – “get the angle right, or you’ll end up a vegetable. I don’t wanna be a vegetable. I fucking hate vegetables.”

“The angle…”

Clint nods. “Yeah. But okay, if you go first and you fuck it up, I’ll finish you off, how’s that?”

“Barton... _Clint_ ,” Sam says slowly, hands raised now, gentling a spooked animal. Clint scoffs.

“What?”

“Are...are _you_ okay?” It’s a question Sam hasn’t asked him before, so Clint considers before answering.

“I’m good.” He is, or at least good _considering_. He’s also 100% okay with either outcome the evening takes, so long as they pick a road together. He’s not ready to lose both of them. He’s lost his family once, it’s not happening again. If Sam really can’t see a way past this, then Clint’s gonna be right behind him. Not like he actually knows the right words to say to make a difference. Not like he can convince Sam the world is worth staying in if his mind is already made up.

“Bullshit.” Sam’s focus is fixed on Clint now, not the sky above or the ground below, or the ring that should be on Riley’s finger. “You’re talking about killing yourself.”

“You started it!”

“You started –  are you _twelve_?” Sam swings his legs back over the edge of the roof and climbs to his feet. He then grabs Clint by the scruff of his neck and hauls him onto solid ground.

“I’m trying to be constructive! You wanna blow your brains out? I’m making sure you don’t fuck it up!”

“That part’s fine. Totally helpful. I’m more focused on the part where you said you were gonna kill yourself right after I’m done.”

“And?”

Sam throws his hands up in exasperation. “Right. That’s great. We both rock up at the pearly gates and Riley knocks my teeth out for getting your dumb ass dead. Brilliant plan, Barton. You’re a fucking genius.”

Clint pouts for a minute. He was only trying to help. This is what he means when he says he’s no good at this shit. “I mean, if you’re dead, you gonna have teeth _to_ knock out?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam mutters. He drags a hand over his face and squints at Clint in the darkness. “You’re insane.”

Clint shrugs. “I’m just sayin’. You wanna kill yourself, fine. Cool. But either way, he’s gonna be pissed at me for not looking after you right. Better I face him with you so he can yell at us both, then I can climb the gates when you guys are making out in the clouds.”

“You’re seriously planning on using me as a diversion so you can sneak into the afterlife?”

“I thought this shit though, okay?” Sam doubles over, and for a terrifying second, Clint thinks he’s fucked up. “Aw shit, Sam no, I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry. Don’t cry, please don’t...wait, crying’s good. Fuck, okay, keep crying. Crying’s good for you and I’m sorry, and I’m really not cool with you dying. Riley would literally haunt me forever, yeah, but I’d fucking miss you and I love you and I will follow you anywhere and I don’t know what to say to help and I’m sorry and – oh. Oh! Fuck you! Fuck you, you utter fucking _fuck!”_

Sam straightens, tears of laughter running down his face and Clint has to clutch his knees and catch his breath because he was literally having a fucking heart attack.

“That was beautiful, Barton.”

“I hate you,” Clint croaks.

Sam shakes his head, still laughing. It’s a beautiful sound. Clint would appreciate it more if his heart wasn’t fucking exploding in his chest. “No, no, I think you said you love me.”

“Did fucking not.”

Abruptly, Sam sobers. “Did you mean it?”

“That I love you?”

“That you’d follow me.”

 

* * *

 

The second hit of coke doesn’t help the way the first one did. Vasily is long gone and Bucky’s hair has almost dried from the shower he took right after he left. It’s nearly three am now and the party downstairs has to either be over or drawing to a close. It’s officially Christmas Eve and people have shit to do. Festive shit. Family shit.

If he doesn’t get some sleep there won’t be a line of coke in the world long enough to get him through breakfast. If he doesn’t sleep, there’ll be no sparing him from his mother’s withering looks of disappointment. Bucky can always make a comment about having nightmares to get his father off his back – the old man is still riding the guilt train of Bucky taking a fucking bullet. But as far as his mother is concerned, that’s last season’s news. Time to throw it out with his summer closet and move the fuck on.

The object at the center of Bucky’s insomnia sits on the bedside table. A shiny red gift box topped with curling gold ribbon. He bought the watch back in April. It’s not super high-end – nothing that might catch his mother’s attention and encourage questions as to how the ‘help’ could afford to wear a twenty grand timepiece. Still more expensive than anything Dugan has owned before, Bucky knows.

He should have given it to him when he got it. He could have worn it for a few weeks then. Bucky could’ve seen his face, seen his smile.

When he imagines it now, tears sting his eyes.

Dugan should be here. Would be here, if not for Bucky. 

He should move the box, throw it out. Not leave it in sight. Not torture himself with it every chance he gets.

After Christmas. After. Then he’ll move it. Until then it can be a reminder of how much Dugan used to love the holidays and how much he loved playing up to all the goofy festive traditions, just to make Bucky smile.

Clear as day, Bucky can see him sitting on the edge of the bed, red velvet santa hat perched at an angle on his head, his moustache twitching with every smile and his hands warm and strong and safe when they wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders and pulled him in for a hug.

_“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”_

The pillowcase beneath him is wet. Bucky presses his face into it harder, regardless, and cries.

The hand that falls onto his shoulder isn’t Dugan’s.

Bucky goes still and stops crying. The bedroom door hasn’t opened, which means there’s only one person it could be. Only Alex uses the hidden entrances to the private residences. Only Alex has reason to.

It’s not the first time Bucky’s been alone with Alex since Dugan found out about them, but it is the first time he’s been in Bucky’s room.

He doesn’t know what to do.

The mattress shifts as Alex sits on the edge of the bed. Cautiously, Bucky lifts his head from the pillow.

There are tears in Alex’s eyes. “Darling boy,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry.” He holds his arm out and Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He’s too tired, too heartbroken, and all of the things he remembers Dugan saying have faded to whispers in the time he hasn’t been around to say them.

Alex loves him, Bucky knows he does.

And he needs that, desperately.

A hand settles in his hair and starts to stroke soothingly.The other wraps around his shoulders, holding him close.

“I would do anything to spare you this. Anything.”

Wrapped in the warmth of Alex’s embrace, Bucky believes him. He believes him, and he edges  closer, tears growing into sobs until he’s shuddering and shaking in Alex’s arms.

Alex doesn’t let go. He rocks Bucky back and forth, a soft, patient stream of words that take long, bleary minutes to seep into his consciousness.

“What was that?” Alex stops rocking when Bucky settles enough to croak out an apology. “Oh no. No. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I want him back,” Bucky whispers. He tries to twist around so he can see Alex’s face, wanting to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t think Alex liked Dugan any more than Dugan liked him. 

The hand in his hair keeps him gently in place. “Of course you do. You loved him. He loved you too, very much.”

Bucky knows that. It hurts when said by someone else. “I just want him back.”

Alex sighs, quiet and sad. “You know that can’t happen.”

Of course he does. He’s not stupid. He knows Dugan’s never coming back. Doesn’t change anything. He wants, with all his heart.

“Then when does it stop hurting?”

Alex doesn’t answer for the longest time. When he does, he resumes stroking Bucky’s hair. “Sometimes it never does. It might hurt differently. Sometimes that’s the most we can hope for.”

“How different?”

The hand in his hair stops stroking. Guided by Alex, Bucky sits upright and tries not to shudder when fingers find the raised scar on his throat. “You remember how this felt? How much it hurt until you were given something to numb the pain?”

“Yes,” he says.

Alex nods, pleased. “And now? Does it hurt as much now as it did then?”

Bucky takes a minute to think. It doesn’t hurt at all, not unless he presses firmly against the freshly healed skin. Not unless he catches sight of it in the mirror. Alex is right, though, it’s a different kind of hurt. Still there; it will always be there. He’ll always have the scar, but….

In that ‘but’, there is the promise of a way forward.

Something must change in his expression, because Alex smiles and leans in close enough to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “That’s my boy.”

Bucky smiles at the affection in his voice. All at once, reality sets in. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, eyes widening in fear. Not for himself, but for Alex. “If anyone…” he trails off. There isn’t really anyone _to_ find out. His parents already know and he doubts Rumlow will actually care. 

Fingers press against his lips and Bucky goes obediently silent. “It’s a risk worth taking,” Alex says. “I couldn’t leave you alone, not tonight. Christmas is a time for spending with the people we love. And it’s a time when their absence can hurt the most. I wanted you to know you weren’t alone.”

He holds out his arms again.

And again, Bucky doesn’t hesitate at the offer of comfort.

 

* * *

 

“You really mean it,” Sam says, something like wonder dawning in his eyes. 

In the face of all that emotion, Clint snorts and rolls his eyes. “Course I fucking mean it. You’re my brother, dickhead. You go, I go.”

“You’ve been watching romcoms again, haven’t you?” The grief has settled back beneath the rest of Sam’s world. It’s still there. Hell, Clint doubts it will ever leave. But the world spins on and unless Sam really is done, then they’ve got to find ways to deal with it.

Fortunately for them, shit like this actually helps.

“You mocking me?” Clint asks, half guilty in the face of the relief he feels to see the smile turn up the corners of Sam’s mouth. He knows it’s mostly an act Sam is putting on. Clint needs it. Sam’s family need it. In many ways, Sam needs it, too.

“Always.”

With a put upon smile, Clint sighs dramatically. “Fine. I can live with that.”

He holds out his hand and Sam doesn’t hesitate in taking it. Instead of letting go, he pulls Clint into a hug. “Yeah,” he whispers, “me too.”


End file.
